The Mongoliad: Book Three

CHAPTER SEVENTY

They reached a rocky spur that sliced through the forest like a ragged cut left by a dull sword. Over the years, a stream had dug a track along the base of the rocky shelf, and it held water now, though it was little more than a trickle. On their right, the forest was dense, filled with grassy hillocks and tightly bunched clumps of alder trees. It wasn’t the easiest terrain for their single horse (weighed down with both Cnan and the Chinese woman, Lian), though the lack of trees made it easier to see and avoid the crevasses and gaps in the rock.

They moved quickly across the open terrain, and Cnan kept her horse close to the tree line where the ground was safer.

Sound carried well along the shelf, caught between the trees and the rocks, and they heard the horses coming a while before they spotted them. Haakon and Krasniy made no move to hide themselves. Cnan’s heart beat faster, and she tried to not let her apprehension pass to her horse. The echoes tripped over each other, confounding the number of animals approaching, and Cnan doubted the riders approaching were friendly.

Haakon and Krasniy each had a sword, and Krasniy had managed to pick up a spear as well on their way out of the camp, but neither wore any armor. They weren’t very well equipped to stand against a host of any size.

The riders came into view, and both parties paused, catching sight of one another. Cnan peered at the pair facing them, noting they were Mongolian and that one-the broader one-appeared to be injured. The other she recognized after a moment as the Khagan himself.

“Ogedei,” Haakon called out, having recognized the man in plum too. He raised his hand and beckoned, waving the Khagan toward him.

The broad Mongol kneed his horse forward, lowering the tall pole he carried until it was pointed at the pair of Westerners like a lance. The horsehair braids danced as his horse charged.

Krasniy laughed, a rolling sound that came deep from his belly. He motioned Haakon to stand aside as he stepped forward, raising his spear.

At the mouth of the valley, Ogedei and Namkhai had stopped for fresher mounts, taking them from the scattered Torguud who appeared to have been ambushed. Namkhai urged Ogedei to keep riding, and while a part of him was angered by the idea of fleeing, prudence won out and he followed Namkhai. The Torguud’s responsibility was to protect him, and leaving them behind to fight the assassins who had sprung out of the woods was the right thing to do.

Ogedei followed Namkhai through the woods, retracing the route they had taken the day before. The clearing near the river where they had camped flashed past, and then Namkhai turned north, heading up a slow incline toward rockier terrain. For a while, he simply focused on Namkhai’s broad back and the fluttering horsehair braids of the Spirit Banner, letting his horse run at its own pace.

And then Namkhai slowed his horse, cutting to the side, and Ogedei looked ahead. He saw a horse carrying two riders and a pair of men, standing in the open. He squinted at them, knowing he knew who the men were, but unable to comprehend why he was meeting them on this trackless rock. “Who-?” he began, and then one of the pair called out his name.

With a shout, Namkhai urged his horse forward, couching the Spirit Banner like a long spear, leaving Ogedei to puzzle out the presence of men whom he thought were caged back at the camp. How had they gotten out? he wondered. Why were they here?

The giant, the red-haired one who had fought like a crazed bear in the gladiatorial matches, carried a spear, and as Namkhai charged, the giant trotted forward, his arm moving back for a long throw. Namkhai suddenly changed his tactic, realizing the giant’s target, and he swept the Spirit Banner to the side. With a final spurt of speed, the giant lunged forward, releasing the spear in an overhanded throw. A second later, the shaft of the Spirit Banner slammed into his chest and hurled him off his feet.

Ogedei’s attention snapped to the flying spear. The giant hadn’t thrown it at Namkhai. He had hurled it, like it weighed not much more than an arrow, past Namkhai.

Ogedei was the target.

He jerked his horse’s head to the side, pounding his feet against its barrel to get it to move. It jerked its head back, snorting at the biting pain he was inflicting by pulling so hard on the reins, and it danced angrily, refusing to obey. The spear arced down, and Ogedei hurled himself out of the saddle, and as he hit the ground hard, painfully scrapping his palms on the rock, he heard the heavy sound of impact. His horse screamed, and he rolled away as it collapsed, thrashing in agony.

The other man, the young Northerner who had stood in the gladiator ring with the fish gutter-the boy who had eyeballed him fiercely, thinking quite seriously about throwing the knife-was running at him. He had a sword, and that same look was plain on his face.

He wasn’t going to stop this time.

As soon as Krasniy released the spear, Haakon realized the sacrifice the giant had made for him. He started sprinting, sword in hand.

The thrown spear hit the Khagan’s horse and the Khagan fell from his saddle as the horse went down, its legs thrashing. The Khagan hit the ground roughly, but got to his feet-sword drawn-in time to meet Haakon’s first attack.

He launched a two-handed downward stroke at the Khagan’s head. Ogedei was dazed from his fall, and he did get his sword up in time, but only just. Haakon’s blow bent Ogedei’s arm, and the Khagan threw his head back, to keep from getting hit by his own blade.

Ogedei surged forward, pushing against Haakon’s blade, and Haakon batted the underpowered swing aside. He was fighting with one of the curved Mongolian swords, and they didn’t have the same point as a Western longsword. The curved end of his blade slid off the Khagan’s jacket, slicing through the fur-lined material but failing to penetrate the leather jerkin underneath. He turned his wrists, rotating the sharp edge of the blade toward the Khagan’s bare neck, and pulled the weapon back in a cutting motion.

Ogedei jerked his head aside and got his blade underneath Haakon’s enough to keep his throat from getting cut. He lashed out with an attack of his own, his blade twisting like an angry serpent, and Haakon caught it between quillons and blade. Ogedei lifted his hands, shoving his blade, and Haakon gasped as the curved edge slid over the base of his hand, slicing his flesh.

Haakon retreated, berating himself for neglecting to remember the differences-once again-between the blade he was fighting with and the one he had trained with. It doesn’t have a point, he castigated himself. It is the edge I have to think about.

Ogedei, seeing the blood running across Haakon’s hand, came at him again, swinging his sword in looping, whirling attacks. Ogedei was swinging his sword hard too; each time Haakon rebuffed his attack, he felt the shock of contact in his hand.

His grip was getting slippery.

Ogedei wasn’t trying to hit him. The Khagan was trying to overtax his wounded hand. If there was enough blood, Haakon might lose control of his weapon.

The broad Mongol thundered past, and Cnan felt Lian shrink, pressing herself against Cnan’s back in an effort to make herself small. As the Mongol brought his horse around, Krasniy shouted at them to get off the rock plateau. Cnan fumbled with the reins of the horse, trying to get the animal’s head turned in the right direction. Krasniy rushed in front of her horse, spooking the animal further, and she spat a furious curse at him.

The Mongol rider was coming back, the long horsehair banner lowered again. Krasniy stood his ground, grinning like a demon, and as the Mongol closed in, Krasniy raised his sword and hurled it one-handed.

Cnan could not believe how eager the man was to throw things. Though, she thought, watching the sword flip end over end, given his aim, it’s a good strategy.

The sword hit the Mongol’s horse in the head, causing the animal to veer and stumble. The Mongol fought to control his mount, which meant he wasn’t paying attention to his target. His lance missed, and Krasniy jumped at the horse as it half galloped, half stumbled past, unhorsing the big Mongol. They hit the ground, flailing at each other in a way that spoke of extensive wrestling experience. They looked like two bears fighting for territorial dominance.

“Look,” Lian shouted in her ear, and Cnan followed her pointed finger.

There were more riders approaching, from the direction that the Khagan and his bodyguard had come. Sunlight glinted off maille and Cnan’s heart leaped. She snapped her reins, and Lian held on as the horse started to run toward the two Shield-Brethren knights.

As the Khagan swept his sword around for another swing, Haakon lunged forward, slapping his sword at the Khagan’s blade before it could complete its revolution. He followed through, reaching over and grabbing at the end of the pommel of the Khagan’s sword. He made contact, then twisted and shoved his body forward, angling his blade down. He thrust his fist forward, the hilt of his weapon clenched as tightly as he could manage with a palm slippery with blood, and he connected with the Khagan’s chin.

Ogedei’s head snapped up and his knees trembled. Haakon felt the Khagan’s grip loosen and he yanked the sword out of Ogedei’s hand. Though Taran had done it to him so many times, he was momentarily surprised that the technique actually worked. For a second he had both swords.

But then Ogedei recovered from the chin punch and bulled into him, knocking him off balance. Haakon stumbled, caught his foot on a protruding knob of rock, and fell on his ass. He tried to hang on to both swords, but lost one, and his head bounced off another rock before he came to a rest. He scrambled to his feet, trying to get his sword pointed at his enemy.

Who was standing still, looking at something behind Haakon. A horse nickered and he heard the chingle of maille.

Trying to keep an eye on the Khagan, he glanced over his shoulder and shouted with surprise at the sight of a pair of Shield-Brethren knights. He recognized both immediately. “Feronantus! Raphael!” Both were haggard; Feronantus’s beard was patchy and ragged, and Raphael leaned awkwardly forward in his saddle.

“Ho, Haakon,” Raphael said, waving a hand, “You should keep an eye on your friend there.”

Haakon whirled back, raising his sword to keep the Khagan at bay. Ogedei had come a few steps closer, but he paused at the sight of Haakon’s ready weapon, raising his hands so that Haakon could see that he was unarmed.

Feronantus was looking farther down the valley, and Haakon spared a quick glance over his shoulder. Cnan’s horse was galloping toward them, and beyond, Feronantus could see Krasniy and Ogedei’s man locked in a furious wrestling match.

“Well, young Haakon,” Feronantus said absently. “We have ridden far, only to find that you have reached our goal before us.”

Raphael let loose a bleak laugh. “All this way and we get to watch the youngster.”

“Do you know who this man is?” Feronantus asked.

“Aye,” Haakon said. “He is Ogedei Khan, the Khagan of the Mongol Empire.”

“Then kill him quickly,” Feronantus said. “We have very little time.” He spurred his horse, passing Cnan who was slowing her own mount as she reached them. For a moment, there were too many moving bodies and Haakon realized he was watching the wrong one. He heard Raphael’s shout almost too late.

He pulled his sword arm in, dropping his weapon across his body, as he danced back across the rocky ground. He heard Ogedei grunt and he felt the cold touch of a knife slide across his back. He twisted away from the blade, wrenching his arm around. His blade hit Ogedei, but the edge was turned the wrong way, and he only battered Ogedei on the side of the head.

Ogedei grabbed his shoulder and tried to keep him from getting away. The knife disappeared and Haakon knew it was coming back. As long as the Khagan had a hand on him, it was going to be very hard to use his sword effectively. He grabbed the blade with his left hand, pinching it tightly between his fingers, and using only a tiny span at the base of the weapon, he tried to draw the weapon across the side of Ogedei’s head.

He felt the blade cut through fur and leather, heard Ogedei roar in pain, and then cried out himself as the Khagan’s knife went deep into his hip. He slashed with his sword again, snapping his right hand out to finish the cut with a pommel strike, and this time he felt something break beneath the metal of his hilt.

They separated, both stumbling and falling to their knees. The Khagan was bleeding profusely from two places on his head, and Haakon’s vision went white as he accidentally bumped his elbow against the hilt of the Khagan’s dagger protruding from his hip. The Khagan shook his head, and when he looked at Haakon, his face was ugly with blood, his left eye already swelling closed.

Sparing a thought to the Virgin, Haakon let go of his sword and grabbed at the dagger stuck in his hip. He howled as he pulled it free, the pain roaring up through his gut and chest. The Khagan raised his hands at Haakon lunged, beating ineffectively at Haakon with a half-closed fist.

Haakon reached over the outstretched arm, and plunged the Khagan’s own dagger into Ogedei’s neck.

Ogedei went away for a moment. He had been fighting the Northerner with his father’s knife, trying to take advantage of the boy’s lack of focus, but something had gone wrong. While his eyes were closed, he tried to remember what had happened, but all that he remembered was a wave of darkness, like a flock of ravens, blotting out everything.

The left side of his face alternated between hot and cold, and whenever it switched, his skin felt slick and damp. He thought he heard a stream running nearby, but when he swallowed, the sound vanished, as if the water were suddenly drawn into a sucking hole in the ground.

Had he been dreaming of flying? That made little sense, for he wasn’t a bird. He was a horse, a four-legged beast of the steppe. All he wanted to do was run and run and run. Run all the way to the sea, with his brothers and sisters at his side. All of their manes streaming behind them in the wind. All he wanted was to run…

He coughed, and the pain was so fierce, he let the ravens take him away for a little while. When he came back, there was someone else there with him. A pale-haired spirit. He tried to tell the spirit what was wrong with him, but the words he spoke were all wrong. Tolui… Tolui… Who was this Tolui? Was that the spirit’s name?

The spirit raised a hand, and when he saw the blood, he screamed. He howled and screeched, and when there was nothing left but a hoarse whimper, Ogedei remembered where he was. He hadn’t been flying at all.

He turned his head-slowly, for the pain stabbing down along his left side-and blinked his right eye heavily at the blurry figure squatting over him. His hands twitched, fumbling for his knife, but he couldn’t find it. Where had it gone? He had just had it…

The boy was talking to him. “Lie still,” he said.

Why should he lie still? He was Khan of Khans. He was… cold.

He tried to tell the boy this, but when he opened his mouth, he felt like nothing came out but water. Thick, foul-tasting water. It ran down his chin, and he coughed as it threatened to fill his mouth.

The ravens came again, and he spent some time wandering in their wake, looking for something. What was it?

His father’s knife.

He shouldn’t lose it. It was important. Genghis had given it to him during his first hunt, when he had shot the deer. He had used it to dress the animal.

There had been so much blood.

One of his father’s men had helped him carry the meat back to camp. What had that man’s name been? Tolui?

No, Tolui was someone else. Someone he needed to remember. Someone important to him. Tolui? he called out, but Tolui didn’t answer.

Tolui hadn’t answered for many years.

He was gone. So was his father.

He could never be like his father. He had always known he would fail to be as great a man as Genghis Khan. No one could. Genghis stopped being a man the instant his spirit left his body. He was a ghost that grew more powerful every year as those who thought they knew him told stories that were little more than their own wishful thinking. They made him a ghost, yet they expected his son to be stronger and braver. They expected more because they could not face the darkness; they were afraid to admit they did understand Genghis’s vision.

They did not know what to do with his legacy. They dreamed-or thought they dreamed-of the endless sea of horses, and they did not know the meaning of such a vision. They thrust the Spirit Banner into the hands of the sons of Genghis Khan and begged them to be more than their father. They begged him to keep the promise they imagined Genghis had made.

But they couldn’t face the idea that Genghis had made no promise to them. The only love Genghis had ever had was for his family-his wives and his sons. They were all that mattered. They were his true legacy.

Ogedei opened his eyes once more. The Northerner was still there.

“The sea,” Ogedei croaked, and the boy leaned closer. Ogedei remembered the dream he had had, of riding a horse away from the heart of the empire, away from the legacy of his father. Riding until he crossed the entire world and reached the western sea. “All I ever wanted was to see the sea,” he sighed.

The boy nodded. “Aye,” he said. “I have seen it.”

“Tell me,” Ogedei said.

The boy did, using words that Ogedei did not understand. But it didn’t matter. He could read the boy’s face well enough. It was all he could see anyway. The ravens had blotted out the rest of the sky. It was getting colder. Like the sea the boy was talking about. Ogedei closed his eyes, and in the fading twilight of his life, saw the horses again. Running endlessly across the grass of the steppes, running all the way to the end of the world where the sea met the sky.

“You have seen more of the world than I,” Ogedei said just before he died.